


Matter and Time

by primeideal



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, Arts & Sciences RPF, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Community: makinghugospin, Cryptography, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:57:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme "prompt" (of sorts): "Combeferre and Alan Turing killing Nazis with their brains."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matter and Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was mentioned as a hypothetical example of an acceptable "historical RPF" prompt, but then, of course, several of us wanted it, so here we are.

"You should take a break," says Alan, vaguely, not looking down.  
  
"I'm okay here." Combeferre turns in his chair without standing, chasing down Alan's eyes to make fervent contact before his hands flap back to the flimsy typewriter.  
  
"We have to be in at dawn tomorrow," Alan paces. "And I want to meet these friends of yours."  
  
"They'll be busy. Again."  
  
"Do you want to spend the night out here?" he snaps. "Come on!"  
  
Combeferre looks up at Alan's insistent face, neck bulging out, and slowly nods. He does not want to spend the night out in these huts. It's like being buried alive, wedged under the school floorboards by some bullies. The enemies may be doing well, but they have not broken them. Not yet. "Okay, okay, we'll see."  
  
They drive back in silence. Well, it's silent at first, and it's only Combeferre driving, having sworn never to be Alan's passenger after one too many swerves several months before. Alan is reading, and making notes to himself.  
  
"Maybe we should just get dinner," says Combeferre, "my friends will be out late. I think they've got some French--well. Business to do."  
  
"Your job is  _business_ ," says Alan, "as far as the war goes, don't sell yourself short."  
  
"I'm not fast enough, the machines can't break through."  
  
"Do you even read German?"  
  
"Well, no, but--"  
  
"Then you can't do it all, not yet. Maybe someday the machines can translate, but not yet--"  
  
"France is getting overrun, and you're worried about machines that can translate German?"  
  
"No, I'm worried about finding your friends and having a nice night so I can be refreshed for the morning, come on."  
  
"As soon have a machine that'll drive itself so I don't have to put up with any more of your bad directions."  
  
"Oh, let's get the Americans to do that, it can deliver its own bombs straight to Berlin."  
  
"Yeah, over the Atlantic."  
  
"That'll take some adjustments."  
  
"As long as we're dreaming."  
  
"It's only a matter of time."  
  
"Five years versus fifty years is a bit of a difference, as far as the future of Europe goes."  
  
"Someday," says Alan, "it won't matter, if we can do it, so can the machines, eventually."  
  
"They said the last war would end all wars. I'm not sure this one will."  
  
"If we lose--"  
  
"--If we lose, what use will the Nazis have for your machines?"  
  
"The machines will still be useful. No matter who builds them."  
  
"Hold on," says Combeferre, stopping the car and quickly climbing the steps to his flat. Empty, no notes, no sign anyone's been through, and he takes the stairs down just as quickly. (Not even-faster, as one might expect on the downward way--it's been a long day of work.) "No, they're not here. Dinner, I guess?"  
  
Alan plays with his hair, light eyes reflected in the windshield. "Yeah. Okay."

So they eat dinner--Alan digs in, savoring each rich bite, but Combeferre chews it quickly, rushing through tastelessly. There's little they can talk about. Their mutual coworkers are more acquaintances than friends, Combeferre's friends never seem to settle down. Work is work. Theoretical science is absurdly boring enough that it'll draw the other customers' attentions, and they wouldn't want to look like spies.  
  
And then Combeferre just drops Alan off. "Get some sleep," says Alan, as he gets out of the car, looking down at his book, "there'll be new codes tomorrow."  
  
"And if we can't break them?"  
  
"Then," says Alan, whirling under the streetlight, "we just ask our lot to bomb something so we'll know what the Nazis  _have_  to be writing about, and proceed."  
  
"You can't be serious!" Combeferre blurts, although it  _is_  Alan he's talking to, who might as well practice joking here where only Combeferre has to decipher him.  
  
Alan shrugs. "Whatever. We'll find a way. We always do."  
  
"Uh-huh," says Combeferre.  
  
"Seriously, though? Find your friends. I want to meet them, see if--" He breaks off.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"If they're--humans, different from machines. Someone, maybe, worth having faith in."  
  
Combeferre opens his mouth, wanting to mention that perhaps he has taken his friends--and his faith?--for granted, but before he can answer Alan's face has blushed bright red in the streetlight and he is hurtling up the stairs, unhearing.  
  
When Combeferre looks down, there's a stray page fallen to the curb, dotted over with sigmas and crosses. He picks it up, squints at it, flattens it out against his leg, then drives back home, but it's a long time before he falls asleep.


End file.
